by Brian Drake
Mahmoud shoved the snout of his gun in the husband’s face.
Their neighbors screamed and yelled for each other to call the police.
Mahmoud said: “Keys! Keys to the vehicle, now!”
The man stood frozen in place.
“Keys!”
Hamin squeezed the wife’s neck. She stiffened against him and let out another yell.
The husband finally broke the trance. He turned toward Hamin, his face twisted in worry.
“Okay, don’t hurt her!”
The husband ran inside with Mahmoud on his heels. Hamin held the woman tight. Her neighbors shouted at him. “Let her go! We called the cops!”
One brave soul in a bathrobe that barely hid his stomach bulge marched across the street with a big, shiny handgun. He raised the muzzle at Hamin.
“You better let her go, you fuckin’ A-rab.”
Hamin fired a burst into the air. Suddenly the American Couch Commando wasn’t so brave. He ran back across the street, a high-pitched squeal in his wake, bathrobe flapping, and dived into the bushes in his yard.
Mahmoud ran out holding keys.
“Let’s go!”
Hamin shoved the wife to the side and joined Mahmoud in the SUV. The Iranians backed out and sped away, the shocked gazes and expressions of the witnesses lingering behind them.
“Where to?”
“Just drive,” Hamin said. He stowed the submachine gun on the floor.
“We have half a tank,” Mahmoud reported.
Hamin mumbled OK and dialed Rollins on his cell.
“Where are you?” Rollins said.
“On the run.” He described what happened at the Fairmont estate.
“Same here.”
“We have a problem, though.”
“The krytrons, I know. They’re still at the warehouse. The Feds haven’t moved on it yet. They only found Califano’s body a short time ago.”
“We need to get there before they do,” Hamin said. “What about moving them out of the country?”
“Try Califano’s contact first,” Rollins said. “If that falls though, I have a few ideas we can try.”
“We don’t have a lot of time to narrow it down to one that will work if our first option fails.”
Hamin ended the call.
“So?” Mahmoud said.
“Back to the safe house,” Hamin said.
“It won’t be--”
“Safe for long, yes. We need to ditch this vehicle and get a few other things.”
Hamin dialed another number.
At the safe house, the Iranian agents grabbed spare clothes and weapons, loading the items into the truck of a tan Buick sitting in the drive. The rush of combat had worn off and they both felt waves of fatigue, but they powered on, driving across town to the Dogpatch neighborhood.
The Dogpatch, on the edge of the bay, had once been solely industrial, but in the last twenty years more and more residential areas had sprung up within the neighborhood. Close to the water, though, remained solely industrial.
Mahmoud turned the Buick onto 20th Street. They drove slowly, passing an auto shop, floor manufacturer, a public storage complex, and the warehouse of a welding equipment rental company. Beyond the welding place sat another warehouse that bore no company name or sign of any kind.
Mahmoud parked beside the building. He left the engine running.
A cold wind blew off the water, biting through Hamin’s light jacket. The blazing lights of the East Bay shoreline shimmered across the bay. The surrounding area, bathed in black, offered no indication of friend or foe. It appeared that Califano’s men had run off. Hamin entered the warehouse through a squeaky door.
In the darkness of the interior, Hamin snapped on a flash light. He spent ten minutes searching through stacks of crates and boxes before he found the locked black case he wanted. He lifted the lid to count the twenty glass-tubed krytrons in their foam packing and brought it back out to the car. There were two other cases, but the Buick was fully loaded. They’d have to accept the loss.
“No guards?” Mahmoud said.
“Everybody has run off, I guess,” Hamin said.
“Where to next?”
“Let’s find a motel.”
Stiletto awoke in a hospital bed, plugged into an IV drip and several monitors. He took a woozy look around the room and saw Toby O’Brien looking out the window. The light blasting through the glass blacked out some of the G-man’s features.
“Toby.” His voice cracked as he spoke.
O’Brien turned and smiled.
“Welcome back.”
“Where. . .”
“SF General under tight security. You’ve been out cold over twenty-four hours.”
O’Brien pulled over a corner chair and sat. “Want to hear how it turned out?”
Stiletto swallowed. His throat felt like sand paper. O’Brien went to fill a cup with water from the bathroom sink. He sat down again while Stiletto drank the water.
“Okay,” Scott said.
“We got most of them but Hamin slipped through the net.”
“What about Fairmont’s buddy, Rollins?”
“We’re searching for him too.”
Stiletto frowned.
“I know, it’s not the best update.”
“What about Ali?”
“She’s safe. Her father’s funeral was yesterday. Tina Avila and her son are safe as well.”
“And me?”
“You’ll live. Sure had a close call, though.”
“Don’t I know it?”
“And your boss wants you back in Virginia ASAP. He’d like to talk to you about the meaning of the word consultant.”
Stiletto laughed. It hurt to laugh. But it also felt good to hurt.
The next day, walking on a cane, patched up and still sore from numerous injuries, Scott Stiletto returned to SFO. With Ali Lewis by his side this time.
They stopped just inside the automatic doors. The line for security seemed to stretch for miles. Cars filled the curbside, passengers dragging luggage into the terminal. They went unnoticed in the stream of activity.
“They couldn’t send you a private jet?” she said.
“Can’t have everything.”
She hugged him gently. He squeezed back.
“Will you be okay?” he said.
“I’ll rebuild. I have a lot of help.”
“I’m sorry, Ali.”
“You did all you could. More than anyone could ask.”
“I’m sorry about other things, too.”
“So am I. It wasn’t our time. Then. But maybe--”
“What?”
“You can always have a job with me.”
“Security?”
“You’re an artist, Scott. You could help with clothing design. Do something where people aren’t shooting at you for a change.”
“I--”
She put a finger to his lips. “Not now.”
She kissed him on the cheek. “Good-bye.” She turned and walked away. Stiletto watched her cross the busy street in front of the airport. He watched her until she melted into the parking area, out of sight. He stood and watched the place where she had been but wasn’t any longer. He wanted to stay. He wanted to follow her. He turned instead and joined the line for security.
As the 747 took off into the cloudy San Francisco sky, Stiletto sat back and closed his eyes. He wondered what Lars Blaser might say. Hamin had escaped. The cycle would continue, unabated.
Others had not escaped. Pito to McCormick to Fairmont, one-two-three. There would be others just like them. There would be others just like Ali. Stiletto was under no illusion that he could stop them all, or save them all, but as long as he breathed, Stiletto planned to be the immovable object met by the unstoppable force. Somebody had to.
Chapter Thirteen
A car collected Stiletto at Dulles. The driver, a young woman, said nothing as they sat in traffic on the way back to HQ. A red Corvette, one of the newer models, p
assed them once traffic opened up, and briefly Scott wondered if he should rebuild the Trans Am or get something new. Then he dismissed the thought. Why would he not want to rebuild?
The driver made it through the C.I.A. entry checkpoint and dropped Scott in front of the building. He moved slowly, every joint aching, but he made it up the steps carrying his suitcase. He proceeded inside.
General Fleming received Stiletto in his office. Scott eased into the chair.
“You’re a wreck.”
“It’s not as bad as it looks, sir.”
“Very well. Let’s have your report.”
Stiletto left nothing out. When he finished, General Ike looked at him for a few moments, tapping a finger on the left arm of his chair. Then he reached for the ever-present glass of water on his desk and swallowed two aspirin. Whatever he had to share was bringing on a migraine. Stiletto didn’t know how he managed to function with those things.
“We couldn’t have guessed any of this obviously. The upshot is, Hamin is still on the loose.”
“With his krytrons.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“He’ll need to get them out of the country and that’s how we’ll catch him.”
“We, not necessarily you.”
“Sir--”
“You may be improving, but you’re in no shape for combat.”
“Maybe a little slow.”
“’A little slow’ may mean the difference between reacting in time to prevent an incident, or dying,” the General said.
“You have to let me finish this, sir.”
General Ike took a breath and went silent again, still taping the arm of his chair. Stiletto looked over at one of General Ike’s paintings, an old wooden Navy ship broken in half and sinking. Sailors were diving into the water or struggling into lifeboats. Scott felt like one of those sailors.
“Who might help Hamin move the krytrons?” the General said.
“He could call any number of people, but there’s one way to find out.”
“Your friend Devlin Marcus?”
Devlin Marcus was a smuggler based in Italy, but also a C.I.A. informant. He’d taken the snitch role when Stiletto shot another informant, who had turned out to be a double-agent. In exchange for his help, Marcus received certain protections from the Americans. Stiletto preferred not to think about those protections, but had to admit Marcus had often proved to be a valuable asset.
“Exactly. This is right up his alley. The Iranians won’t risk their own assets.”
General Ike tapped the arm of his chair.
“I’ll recall Agent Flynn from the field and he’ll be here in a few hours,” the General said. “Call Marcus. I suppose you might as well be there when we catch him.”
“I plan to do more than just be there, sir.”
The overseas line rang in Stiletto’s ear.
“Yes?”
“It’s me.”
Stiletto sat at his desk, the straight back of the chair not helping his injuries. He leaned forward on the edge of the chair and that didn’t help either, so he stood up and leaned against the wall. That helped a little.
“Ah, my American friend,” said Devlin Marcus. “What’s today’s problem?”
“You might get a call from somebody named Rollins or Hamin. . .”
“Nothing yet,” Marcus said once Scott finished the background. “I’ll be sure to drop a dime if I hear something. In exchange for a lot of dimes from you, of course.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Stiletto said. He hung up and sat down again.
He wanted this case finished. He wanted Hamin at the end of his gun. The man had to pay for that he’d put the Blasers and Ali and Tina Avila and her son through. Hamin had to learn that you can’t get away with terrorizing others and not face a reckoning. Stiletto intended to be that reckoning.
When Califano’s smuggling contact finally called, Hamin bit off his anger. He couldn’t blame Califano’s people for lying low, but he and Mahmoud had been switching hotels every day since the raid, constantly looking over their shoulders. It wasn’t a happy existence.
“What do you need moved?” the contact said. His name was Avery.
“Myself, a partner, and a suitcase. Out of the country.”
“It’ll cost you.”
“Money is no object.”
“When?”
“Tonight,” Hamin said.
“They’ll be a rush charge.”
“Fine.”
“First leg of the trip will be by boat,” Avery said. “Be at Pier 20 at midnight, sharp. Bring fifty thousand in cash.”
Hamin checked his watch. Two p.m. Eleven hours to get the money.
“We’ll be there,” he said.
It wasn’t hard to get the money as Hamin had a series of contacts in S.F.’s Iranian community, same as Paris, that either stockpiled funds for such an emergency or pulled cash straight out of cash registers and office safes. A few coded words in the right ears and the goal was met with time to spare.
Hamin stayed plugged in with the local news about the Fairmont raid. The police and F.B.I. had not mentioned his name publicly. They sold the raid as a drug-related arrest, prompting a Chronicle columnist to ask why the D.E.A. had not carried out the raid. The Feds kept repeating the story, however.
As Mahmoud drove to the meeting that night, Hamin had to rely on discipline to prevent a side trip to kill the woman, Ali Lewis. A Parthian shot to the American agent who had caused so many problems. But the mission came first. The krytrons had to get to Tehran, despite having far, far less than he’d intended to bring back.
But later on. . .
Mahmoud stopped in the Pier 20 parking lot. Hamin held the black case and Mahmoud carried a tote bag full of cash as they crossed the lot to the docks where three men waited, one smoking, the other two talking sports. Lampposts cast odd shadows. Water rippled under the wooden planks of the pier. It gave Hamin a general feeling of distrust.
Hamin called out, “Hey,” as he and Mahmoud neared.
The smoker, Avery, flicked his butt away. He wore dark jeans and a leather jacket over a white T-shirt. The water rippled behind him. A fog horn blew somewhere on the bay. “Let me see the money,” the smuggler said.
Mahmoud opened the tote. The smuggler reached for a stack, ruffled the money. “Looks good. No time to count it, we gotta go.”
“Which boat?” Hamin said.
“Big one down there.”
“The one with no lights on? Doesn’t look like anybody has prepared it.”
“What are you saying?” Avery said, stepping closer. He partially blocked Hamin’s view of the other two men.
Mahmoud’s view was not obstructed.
“Gun, Shahram!”
Mahmoud, holding the money in his left hand, dug a pistol from his coat with his right as the smuggler’s associates drew their own. Mahmoud fired once, and then again. The associates dropped with dead-center head shots.
Hamin bent and rolled against Avery’s midsection, elbowing the smuggler in the solar plexus. Hamin rolled free, holding the black case close to his body. Mahmoud shot the smuggler twice. His body flopped on the plank, blood dripping through the spaces between the boards.
“Outta here!” Hamin said. “Fast!”
They ran back to the Buick and did exactly that.
After they’d driven a few blocks, Hamin pounded on the dash and door panels. He let out a scream. Mahmoud remained stoic, but he gripped the steering wheel tight.
Hamin took a deep breath and took out his cell phone. He called Rollins.
“You better have a plan,” Hamin told the go-between. “We are out of options.”
“I’m glad you called,” Rollins said. “You’ll be happy with my answer. How about a drive to Mexico?”
“And then what?”
“A chopper ride, of course.”
The phone rang.
“Yes?” Stiletto said.
“Bingo. Your man Rollins called me,
” Devlin Marcus said. “The plan is for my guys to pick up Hamin and his lieutenant at an abandoned monastery in Mexico, just over the Arizona border.”
“Pick up how?”
“Chopper. I don’t have anybody in the U.S. so this is the next best option. So Hamin is heading to the monastery. Rollins is flying to Madrid to transfer funds. He won’t do that remotely.”
Stiletto hurriedly scribbled the information on a sheet of paper.
“Can you fly a chopper?” Marcus said.
“Yes, but I have another idea.”
Hamin and Mahmoud took turns driving south to Los Angeles, stopping for twenty-four hours before continuing to San Diego.
The drive to Arizona, along the 8 freeway, was uneventful, and they followed the directions to 95 in Yuma and turned south for the final stretch to the border crossing.
They followed the 95 past Friendship Park to a small border check point. Dogs sniffed the car, a border agent ran a mirror under the chassis. They had ditched their weapons and carried only a small amount of cash. The fifty thousand had been returned to the network, and there would be no risk to the infrastructure of his organization. Rollins was footing the bill this time, and there was no need to take a chance by crossing the border with a carload of guns and money.
But Hamin felt naked without a gun.
They passed the inspection with only the usual delay and Mahmoud drove across the border into Mexico.
More long hours of driving.
They gassed up just over the border for the ride to the monastery. Hamin tried not to be nervous, but after the incident with Avery he couldn’t sit still. All he had was Rollins’ word. He’d feel better when he and Mahmoud were aboard the promised helicopter. At least they were out of the U.S. That, alone, was a major victory.
They continued the slow drive along a rutted dirt road, stopping to avoid stray cows and move rocks out of the way.
